Touched
by Indigo Ziona
Summary: You know how when you're sick and it's late and you feel things that you don't any other time? You know how when it's dark and you're with someone else and it's quiet and you say things you wouldn't normally? Snape's in the Hospital wing. So is Harry.


I wrote this a while back after reading a plethora of Snape-father-figure stories, including one extraordinarily bad version.  It was meant to be an interlude in 'Snape's Redemption'.  However you may have noticed that I have left that unfinished.  Eeek! I also originally said that this could be a many years later scene from HFHE but actually it's in an AU to HFHE (you'll see)..  It's just a one-off, though, despite the reference to Snape's sister Selina (his parents liked alliterative names!  What can I say?) whom you may recognise from both the aforementioned fics.

You know how when you're sick and it's late and you've been having bad dreams, you start feeling things that you never feel any other time?  And…  you know how when you're with someone else late at night and it's quiet and you end up saying things you never thought or dared to say before?  Consider this an exploration.

Touched 

By the time he returned from the gathering, it was late and his limbs ached.  The extended Cruciatus curse had taken its toll; whilst walking, it still felt as though pins stabbed every joint, as if weights were on his shoulders and back – irons and chains.

He staggered through to Dumbledore's office, wishing he could just go to bed and sleep dreamless sleep for many hours in the tempting darkness.  Instead, he had promised to report how the meeting had gone, and he cursed himself for doing so now.  He felt like he might die on the way…

Dumbledore's face was a picture of concern.  He watched his normally composed Potions Master slumped, stumbling over words with a weary voice and bloodshot eyes.  Snape's tone was still matter-of-fact, but when he had finished, Dumbledore said softly, 'You suffered the Cruciatus curse, didn't you?'

Snape looked up, his normal pallor even whiter and his expression tired, yet somehow ashamed, his voice apologetic.  'The Dark Lord felt that my work – was not good enough…'

'Severus, come to the Hospital Wing.  You look ill.'

'Albus…'

'Please.'

Snape followed mutely as Dumbledore led the way.  Poppy Pomfrey was still awake, having tended to her only patient, now asleep.  Potter.

'Oh, hello Albus, Severus.  Harry had an unfortunate incident in Herbology today…  I'm keeping him overnight to make sure the poison is out of his system.  What can I do for you?'

Dumbledore smiled to the nurse.  'I want Severus to stay overnight, at least.  Do you have any pain-relieving potion?'

Madam Pomfrey looked at him with a surprised curiosity, and then said, 'Certainly Albus.  Why don't you sit down, Severus?  I'll find something suitable.'

Too tired to argue, Snape sat down, half-listening to the distant sound of their voices.

'This being Severus, who'd rather limp than come to the Hospital Wing for a broken leg, I assume the pain is serious?'

Her tone was light, a little concerned.  Dumbledore was grave.  'I am afraid so, Poppy.'

For a moment, he heard the tinkering of bottles knocking against one another.  'This, I believe, would be the most suitable.'

Madam Pomfrey did not reply for a moment, presumably as she understood why Dumbledore had picked that particular potion.  'Are you sure, Albus?'  Her voice wavered.

'Yes, Poppy.'

Snape was handed a measure of it, a brownish-orange mixture which he quickly downed.  He sighed as, already, the intense stabbing began to subside, and was overcome with a wash of drowsiness.  He looked at Poppy under heavy eyelids.

'Thank you.'

She looked to Dumbledore, her face sad, though a little amused.  'He's so ill, he's polite.  Sleep over here, Severus.'

He did sleep a few hours, before waking up at around 2 am, still tired but unable to sleep any longer, tossing and turning.  He disliked this unfamiliar bed and the uncomfortable clothes Madam Pomfrey had given him to wear in it.  

Snape sat up.  The room was silent apart from Potter's breathing, and almost pitch black.  Dimly, he recalled another nightmare – they'd become much worse since the Dark Lord had returned.  Feeling for his cloak, he knew that he would find a vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion.  He knew, from countless warnings, that too much of this potion was unhealthy, that prolonged suppression of dreams would damage mental faculties, that the ingredients could have harmful side effects.  However, it was an alternative between an unknowing madness caused by dreamlessness, or a fully aware, taunting madness from too many nightmares, and it was beginning to look as though looking the fool would be a small price to pay.

Sanity…  Snape couldn't help but think his appearance of sanity was merely an intermediate state between two sorts of madness.

Someone screamed.  A terrified sound that split through the silence and darkness as frost shatters stone.  Potter.

'_Incendio_,' Snape whispered, as he grasped his wand on the bedside table and lit the lamp.  Potter was sitting up, shocked and actually crying.  Like Snape, he must have suffered a nightmare, a truly awful one.

Snape got up and pulled his robe over himself, suddenly anxious for no apparent reason.  It was _just a nightmare, he'd lived with enough of those, but he needed to do something about the way the boy was sitting there, still in shock, fighting back tears and looking as thought he didn't even realise he'd woken up.  He was gasping rapidly.  Snape strode over to him, Potter not even noticing, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder._

'Potter – you're safe.  _Potter._'

No response, and he suddenly felt urgently afraid, a bizarre feeling that he and the boy would both be trapped in the world of nightmares if he didn't bring him to his senses.  Both hands on both shoulders now.

'_Harry._  You're safe – it was a nightmare, just a nightmare.'

The boy's frantic breathing gradually slowed, his shocked expression became more conscious, although the tears still coursed down his face.

'I thought I saw Voldemort,' he said hoarsely.

'It was a dream.'

He somehow could not shake the image of…  What was it?  His sister, Selina when she had been only small, one night he'd found her crying after a bad dream, and their parents were out until late.  Potter was much older that she had been, but no doubt his nightmares were much worse – a similar calibre to Snape's own, probably.  Snape was seized by the crazy irrational desire to somehow banish those images the way he had done for Selina years earlier.  Potter still seemed too shaken up to realise what was happening, and Snape felt actual sympathy, an almost alien emotion, welling up inside him.  He reached out, got as far as rubbing the boy's back comfortingly before self-consciousness and unease made him pull his hands away, and move away from the bed.  In the slightly chilly room, in the half-light of the lamp, he came partly to his senses and shook his head, hoping to get some sense into it.  _Don't be stupid.  He's not exactly dying for a hug from Uncle Sevvie.  That would give __him nightmares, not take them away._

Why had he wanted to do it in the first place?  _I hate the boy._

The thought had a singsong tone of habit about it.  Blearily considering it, it must be true if he thought it so automatically, but for some reason he couldn't quite remember why he thought it at all.

_Do I?_

'Professor Snape?'

The tired voice was unafraid, but confused.

'Yes, that's right.'

'Where am I?'

'The Hospital Wing.'

'Oh…' Snape dug out his Dreamless Sleep Potion from pocket of his robe, as the boy fumbled through his thoughts.  'Yeah…  I remember.'

Snape did not reply, but lit his wand like a torch, and went to Poppy's store cupboard.  He found a pestle and mortar, some witch hazel and a small measure of fairy tears.  That would do very nicely…

The Potion was his own personal concoction.  It was stronger than usual, because of his tolerance to it – if someone not used to it were to drink it, they might suffer adverse side effects.  He carefully ground the witch hazel, occasionally moistening in with the fairy tears, emptied the vial into a goblet, and poured the crushed juice of witch hazel and the fairy tears in with the potion.

When he had finished, he found the boy – Harry – still awake, but calmer.  He was sitting up and looking around contemplatively.  Snape placed the goblet on his bedside table.

'Dreamless Sleep Potion,' he explained.

'Thank you,' Harry said softly.  'I've asked Madam Pomfrey for it, sometimes, but she always says that too much isn't safe.'

Snape snorted.  'It isn't.'

'Where did you get it?'  It wasn't a demand – just a curious question.

'It was mine.'

'You have nightmares?'

'Yes.'

There was silence, and Snape sat down on his bed again, his head swimming.

'I'm sorry to hear that, sir.'

'It's nothing I didn't already deserve.'  His voice was cold and resigned.  

'Because you followed Voldemort?'  The boy's voice was tentative, as if he was worried that might be too daring a thing to mention.  Incongruously, Snape was mildly surprised, and almost impressed that Harry, unlike his peers, was not afraid to call Voldemort by his name.  He hardly noticed the intrusiveness of the question – the lit, daytime world of reality seemed so far away.

'Because of that, yes.'

'But you don't anymore.'

'Thank you for that vote of confidence, Potter,' he replied, coolly.  _That doesn't change what I did.  'However that does not stop nightmares.'_

'I just meant…  I don't think it's something you should still be suffering for.'

Potter seemed to have contracted amnesia, Snape thought wryly.  Not only had he forgotten what Death Eaters tended to do with their time, despite obviously having first-hand experience, he didn't seem to think that sarcasm, bullying, and obvious bias towards Slytherin were particular crimes, unlike the entire faculty.  Snape didn't want or expect kindness, as Harry should have known from years of Potions lessons.

'Undeserved punishment is surely something you know a lot about, Potter, with your parents, and your godfather – and although Sirius Black is hardly a martyr, I doubt _he_ has used countless damaging potions and curses – including the Cruciatus Curse – on innocent people.'

'Have you?'

'Yes.  The only reason I am not in Azkaban is because when the time came to kill someone outright, I _lost_ my _nerve.  Apparently torturing is more my forté.'_

Why was he talking like this?  In a grating tone with words that, even as he said them, cut deeper into himself than he even intended for his cruel remarks to cut into others.

Harry seemed mystified.  'Didn't you – feel bad about it?'

Snape spat back the reply.  'Of course I did!'

More silence.  Why had he said anything?  

Harry's voice, from the other side of the room, was gentle.  'Then you're not truly a monster.'

Something about the tone of his voice carried with it a buried, bittersweet memory.  The Union Against Voldemort, his membership as a spy.

_'I don't think we can trust him.  He's always hated us, and besides, somewhere along the line he must have _wanted_ to join Voldemort.  Who says he's not spying for him_?'__

_'Dumbledore vouches for him, James.  I know you were never friends but he's our ally now.  Didn't you see how shaken up he was when we told them about what You-Know-Who had done to Frank and his wife?  He's not a monster.'_

'Merlin's beard, Potter,' Snape murmured, suddenly almost amused.  'You're too much like your mother.'

Harry actually gave a little laugh at this unexpected comment.  'I thought you didn't like my father.  Didn't you like my mother either?'

'I didn't know her, actually.  She was the year below me, and until her sixth year, tended to spend her time after Sirius Black.  I'm sure you know that there is no love lost between him and me.'

'Mum was after Sirius?'

'Along with most of Gryffindor's female population.  _Then_ she got a place on the Quidditch team.'

'_Mum_ played Quidditch?'

'She was only a Keeper for two matches – injuries prevented her from playing in the final.  She did, however, have plenty of time for your father to give her _extra training.'_

Harry laughed loudly at that.  At first, Snape wondered if he was being mocked, then he thought over the remark, and realised that, at least to people blessed with _normality, the remark had indeed been quite funny.  There he was, losing touch with reality again._

'As you can imagine, I was not particularly keen to observe their relationship, especially when one of your father's close friends had attempted to kill me the previous year.'

'Why did Sirius do that?'  Harry was suddenly curious.

'He never told you?  Why, I _am_ surprised.  Too much butterbeer and a prank he hadn't enjoyed.'

'He did it because one of his pranks went wrong?'

'No actually.  Because my prank went right.'

'What did you do?'  Harry breathed.  He was that unusual thing: a fascinated audience. 

'There was a girl he liked – Ravenclaw, very attractive.  She was totally unimpressed by him, not interested in mischief and rather aloof.  I suspect that was why he liked her.  I gave her a love potion.'

'A _love _potion?  They exist?'

'Yes, they do, although they're difficult to make and they wear off quickly.'

'Did she fall in love with you?'

'That was not the object of the exercise.'  He had to admit, he was enjoying this.  His Slytherin friends at the time had been unimpressed, but Harry was rapt.

'It made her fall in love with Black.'

'But – isn't that what he wanted?'  He sounded confused.

'Have you ever heard the phrase, "When the gods wish to punish us, they will answer our prayers"?'

'I think so…'

'Black was blissfully happy to be with the object of his lusts.  Only a day later, the potion wore off.  The girl was humiliated, and refused to talk to him.  I don't think she really behaved differently to Black after that – if Black had thought she had paid attention to him before, it was just his imagination – but he'd had an idea of what it was like to have her fawning over his every word.  So, naturally, he was a little – _upset.'_

'How very…  Slytherin.'

'Thank you, Mr. Potter.'

A owl hooted in the distance, and Snape shifted a little to get more comfortable.

'I really can't help but feel sorry for Sirius,' Harry said, as if he'd been thinking long and hard about it.

'I think he adequately exacted his revenge.'

Harry sounded frustrated.  'I don't see why you had to be enemies in the first place.  Did you always hate each other?'

'Slytherins and Gryffindors never get along, Potter – I thought that you'd learned that from your frequent exchanges with Mr. Malfoy.'

_And why are _we _talking like this?  Don't we hate each other?  There was a tense silence.  The boy had a point, that was true.  Ever since the first year, he and Black had inflicted pranks on each other which steadily got less and less amusing, and more and more hurtful.  At first it had merely been Slytherins against Gryffindors, aiming to embarrass the other side as much as possible.  Then eventually, Snape and Black, the most gifted members of either 'side', had evolved it into a personal vendetta.  It wasn't just inter-house rivalry – but what was it?  But too late to change now.  It seemed, however, that the prank Snape had played, though clever, was much less amusing than he had thought._

 'Any more questions?' Snape asked, sardonically.  _Sound like you don't care._

'Yes…'  Harry's voice had a smile in it.  'How did you find out how to make the love potion?'

'I don't think that telling you would really be a good idea.  I'm sure that Miss Granger could tell you if and when she discovers it for use on Mr. Weasley.'

Harry chuckled.  'You noticed that?'

'It's difficult not to notice two hormonal teenagers who are making such a poor show of hiding their mutual attraction.  What mystifies me is that, intelligent as Miss Granger is, she has not so much as noticed it yet.'

Harry sounded very amused.  'I think she will eventually.  I'm just surprised that you realised, everyone else thinks that she fancies _me_.'

'Sorry to disappoint you, Potter.'  _I'm actually teasing him – how strange._

'What else have you noticed?'

'Finnigan, as you put it, 'fancies' Miss Brown…  Miss Bulstrode likes Mr. Zabini.  If Mr. Malfoy liked anyone, I suspect his first choice would be Miss Parkinson.  Any more?'

'All right then – who do I like?'  _You're sounding over-confident Potter – as if I couldn't guess._

'If your behaviour in Quidditch matches is anything to go by, Cho Chang.'

'I'm impressed.'  And he sounded it.  Well, well, well.

'Good.'

_How long have we been talking like this?  _Snape suddenly thought.  The conversation was a little more than just mildly surreal, and Harry's next flippant comment didn't help.

'So, is there anyone for you?  Professor Trelawney, maybe?'

'I don't think so, somehow.'

Harry laughed again.  His voice, Snape suddenly noticed, had lost the weariness and fear from after the nightmare.  He now sounded revitalised and light-hearted – maybe even happy.

'I'm sorry, Professor, I was just teasing.'

_Just teasing.  _The statement was suddenly absurd – if this had been a classroom, if Harry – Potter – had even hinted at _teasing him, a long detention would have been in order.  But right now, that behaviour seemed ridiculous – his light-heartedness was somehow infectious.  It was bewildering._

'You had better sleep now, Mr. Potter.  I would prefer it if you did not sleep through Potions tomorrow when I already have Longbottom to deal with.'

'Of course, Professor.  I'll drink the potion now.'

He downed the contents of the goblet in one long swallow, stretched his arms, and laid back.

'Good night, sir.'

'Good night, Harry.'

Their eyes suddenly met across the gloom – as Snape squinted, he swore that he could see a surprised smile.

Harry lay still for a long while, his breathing even and restful.  Asleep, dreamless sleep.  Snape looked at the dimly lit bed, watching him peacefully sleep.

'I sometimes wish,' he confided into the darkness. 'That you were Longbottom and Longbottom was you.  Then Longbottom would be not famous and reasonably good at Potions, and you…'

He paused, only completing the thought in his head.  He had thought it often, but now he considered it, his reason seemed childishly petty.

'That's all right,' said a softly amused voice.  'I think I know what you're going to say.'

'Go to sleep.'

'Yes, Professor.'

He woke up to a bright sunny morning, cool and with a scent of dew in the air.  Potter was still sleeping, his glasses on the bedside table askew, the goblet still out, unwashed.  Madam Pomfrey was not around – good, he could get dressed.

When he had finished, she came in, and looked him up and down.

'You're looking much better, Severus.  How do you feel?'

'Better, thank you.'  Unlike his thanks the night before, this was dismissive, lacking any deep sincerity.

'Back to your grumpy self I see – well, that's good.'

She bustled around Potter's bed, casting diagnostic charms and all sorts.  She noticed the goblet.

'He must have got himself a glass of water during the night – ah well, it would do him good.  Did he disturb you at all?'

Snape was suddenly struck by a thought.  'Where were _you last night, Poppy?  Aren't you meant to be watching your patients?'_

'I had to go to Hufflepuff – a boy was sleepwalking, hurt himself.  I'm sure you coped adequately without me…' What was that, a knowing smile?  She didn't know anything.  'You owe me a bottle of fairy tears.'

Potter awoke, stretched, put on his glasses.  He looked at Snape with some surprise, and at the goblet.

'So it wasn't a dream,' he murmured.

Snape looked back meaningfully.  'Yes, it was.'

'What was, Professor?' Potter asked, innocently.

_Damn.  _The boy had caught him where he was suddenly vulnerable – well, time to hit him back.

'Breathe a word of what you _dreamt last night, Potter, and Gryffindor will be in minus points.  Understand?'_

'Yes sir.'

Madam Pomfrey smiled that irritating smile again, then began bustling around Potter again, asking him how he was feeling and offering him breakfast.

'The world stops for the Boy who Lived,' Snape murmured to himself, as he walked out.

Snape's irritation grew steadily throughout the day, leading up to the afternoon Potions lesson with – who else? – Gryffindor/Slytherin fifth years.  He had severely embarrassed himself the night before – why had he insisted on behaving so foolishly?  He'd actually been about to…  ugh.

Now Potter, no matter what he said, would probably be spreading the story around Gryffindor at a rate such that the most ignorant Muggle-born first year would know by lunchtime.  He would probably walk into the lesson to an uproar of laughter.  In fact, he was surprised his fifth year Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw lesson before lunch had not commenced in such a manner.

In an even worse temper than usual, he strode into the dungeon, to be greeted by –

Silence.

He glared at Potter suspiciously, but the boy didn't even look up – he was writing the date on a sheet of parchment.  The other Gryffindor students regarded him with their usual mix of apprehension and terror.  Draco Malfoy was giving him the usual smug look in anticipation of the various house-points he knew that he'd be receiving today, and so everything did indeed seem normal.  _Oh, how I hate that boy, Snape thought, as he watched the blond son of Lucius Malfoy give that same self-satisfied look he always did.  He didn't mind giving Slytherin points, obviously, but Draco was a little upstart with half as much talent as he thought he possessed, and full of the notion that he knew everything about everything, and it was all going his way.  _If I didn't have to please his father, I'd give him a week of detention cleaning out after Hagrid's animals, Slytherin or not.  _Although the thought was not a healthy one, considering he had to deal with this boy daily, it did at least take his mind off Potter._

They were brewing Chameleon Potion, and Snape watched them prepare the ingredients with the grim anticipation that this lesson would go the same way it always did.  Most of them would prepare a fairly reasonable potion.  Granger would prepare a potion so good it could be used as an invisibility potion, and outstrip all the Slytherins as usual.  Malfoy would make an _average potion, which, as usual, he would have to praise beyond its virtues.  Longbottom would probably melt another cauldron._

Snape usually left these lessons in an abominable mood, unless he could make at least one Gryffindor miserable.  Usually, the opportunity presented itself, and usually in the shape of Longbottom, however he felt considerably better reducing the know-it-all Granger to tears (she was so irritating!) – although to make Potter feel as miserable as he felt _teaching_ these awful lessons was generally his goal.  He found himself wishing once again that Longbottom was Potter and Potter was Longbottom.  Longbottom, being terrified of him already – and the uncomfortably guilty memory of his parents – made making the incompetent boy quaver under his glare barely satisfying.  If Potter were that incompetent, he would at last have a reasonable excuse for making the undeservedly famous boy's life miserable.

Potter was the one he chose to taunt today, feeling he had something to prove by it.  Surprisingly – and somewhat annoyingly – Potter did not rise to the bait, and even answered his remarks with considerable politeness.  To make matters worse, the other Gryffindors were at their most insufferable today: Granger with her hand permanently in the air to tell him she'd memorised the Potions book, Longbottom allowing noxious fumes to erupt, choking several others and probably making a potion that had not yet been invented, and Brown and Patil gossiping _incessantly_.  To bring the lesson to a conclusion, Snape ended up taking a large amount of points from Gryffindor, telling them it was Potter's fault.  Then at last, they all left, trailing out with the usual insults murmured under their breath, Malfoy even more smug and Parkinson hanging off his every word.  Good riddance.

Potter was unusually slow in leaving, and as Snape cleaned the blackboard, he watched, out of the corner of his eye, Potter approach his desk.

'I suggest you leave, Potter, before your house loses any more points.  Understand?'

'Of course, sir.'

He turned around to see the boy walking out, and looked down to the desk.

The boy had placed a white envelope there, addressed simply _Professor Snape._

_So now he wants to blackmail me_, Snape thought grimly.  He tore it open, to see – a card.

It was moderately tasteful, with a painting of a countryside scene on the front.  Potter had probably gone down to Hogsmeade during the lunch hour to buy it.  Just like the boy to break rules, he thought sardonically, although even as he thought it, he realised how ridiculous he was being.  He opened it.

_Professor,_

_Thank you for your kindness last night.  I'm glad we got to talk – and thank you for the potion.  I hope you're feeling better from whatever illness or injury you had._

_Harry Potter._

_PS. I promise never to mention this again._

Snape carefully placed it in a drawer, where no one would see it.  Then he carefully made sure it was next to his box of chalk, something constantly in use, with a funny feeling that he'd actually want to see it again.

He knocked the drawer shut, and then opened it again.  He couldn't work out what was bothering him.  He opened the card again.

He had to admit, he was touched.

***

_Please review.  I hope that wasn't too bizarre for you!  Incidentally, if I ever get time, I'd like to write 'Lily plays Quidditch' story._


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